"You didn't like it?" Beau asked.
"No, it wasn't that. Someone. . . a stranger I
trusted, attacked me in an alley on the way here," I
confessed. "What? Are you all right?" he asked
quickly.
"Yes. I got away before anything terrible
happened, but it was quite frightening."
"I'll bet. The back streets in New Orleans can be quite dangerous during Mardi Gras. You shouldn't have wandered around by yourself." He turned to
Edgar. "Where is Nina, Edgar?" he asked.
"Just finishing up some things in the kitchen." "Good. Come on," Beau insisted. "I'll take you
to the kitchen and Nina will give you something to
drink at least. Edgar, would you be so kind as to
inform Mademoiselle Gisselle that I've arrived with a
surprise guest and we're in the kitchen?"
"Very good, monsieur," Edgar said and headed
for the beautiful curved stairway with soft carpeted
steps and a shiny mahogany balustrade.
"This way," Beau said. He directed me through
the entryway, past one beautiful room after another,
each filled with antiques and expensive French
furniture and paintings. It looked more like a museum
to me than a home.
The kitchen was as large as I expected it would
be with long counters and tables, big sinks, and walls
of cabinets. Everything gleamed. It looked so
immaculate, even the older appliances appeared
brand-new. Wrapping leftovers in cellophane was a
short, plump black woman in a brown cotton dress
with a full white apron. She had her back to us. The strands of her ebony hair were pulled tightly into a thick bun behind her head, but she wore a white kerchief, too. As she worked, she hummed. Beau Andreas knocked on the doorjamb and she spun
around quickly.
"I didn't want to frighten you, Nina," he said. "That'll be the day when you can frighten Nina
Jackson, Monsieur Andreas," she said, nodding. She
had small dark eyes set close to her nose. Her mouth
was small and almost lost in her plump cheeks and
above her round jaw, but she had beautifully soft skin
that glowed under the kitchen fixtures. Ivory earrings
shaped like seashells clung to her small lobes. "Mademoiselle, you changed again?" she asked
incredulously.
Beau laughed. "This isn't Gisselle," he said. Nina tilted her head.
"Go on with you, monsieur. That t'aint enough
of a disguise to fool Nina Jackson."
"No, I'm serious, Nina. This isn't Gisselle,"
Beau insisted. "Her name is Ruby. Look closely," he
told her. "If anyone could tell the difference, it would
be you. You practically brought up Gisselle," he said. She smirked, wiped her hands on her apron, and
crossed the kitchen to get closer. I saw she wore a
small pouch around her neck on a black shoestring. For a moment she stared into my face. Her black eyes narrowed, burned into mine, and then widened. She stepped back and seized the small pouch between her right thumb and forefinger so she could hold it out
between us.
"Who you be, girl?" she demanded.
"My name is Ruby," I said quickly, and shifted
my eyes to Beau, who was still smiling impishly. "Nina is warding off any evil with the voodoo
power in that little sack, aren't you, Nina?"
She looked at him and at me and then dropped
the sack to her chest again.
"This here, five finger grass," she said. "It can
ward off any evil that five fingers can bring, you
hear?"
I nodded.
"Who this be?" she asked Beau.
"It's Gisselle's secret sister," he said.
"Obviously, twin sister," he added. Nina stared at me
again.
"How do you know that?" she asked, taking
another step back. "My grandmere, she told me once
about a zombie made to look like a woman. Everyone
stuck pins in the zombie and the woman screamed in
pain until she died in her bed."
Beau roared.
"I'm not a zombie doll," I said. Still suspicious,
Nina stared.
"I daresay if you stick pins in her, Nina, she'll
be the one to scream, not Gisselle." His smile faded
and he grew serious. "She's traveled here from
Houma, Nina, but on the way to the house, she had a
bad experience. Someone tried to attack her in an
alley."
Nina nodded as if she already knew.
"She's actually quite frightened and upset,"
Beau said.
"Sit you down, girl," Nina said, pointing to a
chair by the table. "I'll get you something to make
your stomach sit still. You hungry, too?"
I shook my head.
"Did you know Gisselle had a sister?" Beau
asked her as she went to prepare something for me to
drink. She didn't respond for a moment. Then she
turned.
"I don't know anything I'm not supposed to
know," she replied. Beau lifted his eyebrows. I saw
Nina mix what looked like a tablespoon of blackstrap
molasses into a glass of milk with a raw egg and some
kind of powder. She mixed it vigorously and brought
it back.
"Drink this in one gulp, no air," she prescribed.
I stared at the liquid.
"Nina usually cures everyone of anything
around here," Beau said. "Don't be afraid.
"My grandmere could do this, too," I said. "She
was a Traiteur."
"Your grandmere, a Traiteur?" Nina asked. I
nodded.
"Then she was holy," she said, impressed.
"Cajun Traiteur woman can blow the fire out of a burn
and stop bleeding with the press of her palm," Nina
explained to Beau.
"I guess she's not a zombie girl then, huh?"
Beau asked with a smile. Nina paused.
"Maybe not," she said, still looking at me with
some suspicion. "Drink," she commanded, and I did
what she said even though it didn't taste great, I felt it
bubble in my stomach for a moment and then I did
feel a soothing sensation.
"Thank you," I said. I turned with Beau to look
at the doorway when we heard the footsteps coming
down the hall. A moment later, Gisselle Dumas
appeared, dressed in a beautiful red, bare shoulder
satin gown with her long red hair brushed until it shone. It was about as long as mine. She wore dangling diamond earrings and a matching diamond
necklace set in gold.
"Beau," she began, "why are you late and
what's this about a surprise guest?" she demanded.
She whirled to confront me, putting her fists on her
hips before she turned in my direction. Even though I
knew what to expect, the reality of seeing my face on
someone else took my breath away. Gisselle Dumas
gasped and brought her hand to her throat.
Fifteen years and some months after the day we
were born, we met again.
11
Just Like Cinderella
.
Who is she?" Gisselle demanded, her eyes
quickly moving from wide orbs of amazement to
narrow slits of suspicion.
"Anyone can see she's your twin sister," Beau
replied. "Her name is Ruby."
Gisselle grimaced a
nd shook her head. "What sort of a practical joke are you playing
now, Beau Andreas?" she demanded. Then she
approached me and we stared into each other's faces. I imagined she was doing what I was doing--
searching for the differences; but they were hard to
see at first glance. We were identical twins. Our hair
was the same shade, our eyes emerald green, our
eyebrows exactly the same. Neither of our faces had
any tiny scars, nor dimples, nothing that would
quickly distinguish one of us from the other. Her
cheeks, her chin, her mouth, all were precisely the
same shape as mine. Not only did all of our facial
features correspond, but we were just about the same
height as well. And our bodies had matured and
developed as if we had been cast from one mold. But on second glance, a more scrutinizing second glance, a perceptive inspector would discern differences in our facial expressions and in our demeanor. Gisselle held herself more aloof, more arrogantly. There seemed to be no timidity in her. She had inherited Grandmere Catherine's steel spine, I thought. Her gaze was unflinching and she had a way of tucking in the right corner of her mouth disdain
fully.
"Who are you?" she queried sharply.
"My name is Ruby, Ruby Landry, but it should
be Ruby Dumas," I said.
Gisselle, still incredulous, still waiting for some
sensible explanation for the confusion her eyes were
bringing to her brain, turned to Nina Jackson, who
crossed herself quickly.
"I am going to light a black candle," she said,
and started away, muttering a voodoo prayer. "Beau!" Gisselle said, stamping her foot. He laughed and shrugged with his arms out. "I
swear I've never seen her before tonight. I found her
standing outside the gate when I drove up. She came
from . . . where did you say it was?"
"Houma," I said. "In the bayou."
"She's a Cajun girl."
"I can see that, Beau. I don't understand this," she said, now shaking her head at me, her eyes
swimming in tears of frustration.
"I'm sure there's a logical explanation," Beau
said. "I think I'd better go fetch your parents." Gisselle continued to stare at me.
"How can I have a twin sister?" she demanded.
I wanted to tell her all of it, but I thought it might be
better for our father to explain. "Where are you going,
Beau?" she cried when he turned to leave.
"To get your father and mother, like I said." "But. . ." She looked at me and then at him.
"But what about the ball?"
"The ball? How can you go running off to the
ball now?" he asked, nodding in my direction. "But I bought this new dress especially for it
and I have a wonderful mask and . . ." She embraced
herself and glared at me. "How can this happen!" she
cried, the tears now streaming down her cheeks. She
clasped her hands into small fists and slapped her
arms against her sides. "And tonight of all nights!" "I'm sorry," I said softly. "I didn't realize it was
Mardi Gras when I started for New Orleans today,
but--"
"You didn't realize it was Mardi Gras!" she
chortled. "Oh, Beau."
"Take it easy, Gisselle," he said, returning to
embrace her. She buried her face in his shoulder for a
moment. As he stroked her hair, he gazed at me, still
smiling. "Take it easy," he soothed.
"I can't take it easy," Gisselle insisted, and
stamped her foot again as she pulled back. She glared
at me angrily now. "It's just some coincidence, some
stupid coincidence someone discovered. She was sent
here to. . . to embezzle money out of us. That's it, isn't
it?" she accused.
I shook my head.
"This is too much to be a coincidence, Gisselle.
I mean, just look at the two of you," Beau insisted. "There are differences. Her nose is longer and
her lips look thinner and. . . and her ears stick out
more than mine do."
Beau laughed and shook his head.
"Someone sent you here to steal from us, didn't
they? Didn't they?" Gisselle demanded, her fists on
her hips again and her legs spread apart.
"No. I came myself. It was a promise I made to
Grandmere Catherine."
"Who's Grandmere Catherine?" Gisselle asked,
grimacing as if she had swallowed sour milk.
"Someone from Storyville?"
"No, someone from Houma," I said.
"And a Traiteur," Beau added. I could see he
was enjoying Gisselle's discomfort. He enjoyed
teasing her. "Oh, this is just so ridiculous. I do not
intend to miss the best Mardi Gras all because some . .
. Cajun girl who looks a little like me has arrived and
claims to be my twin sister," she snapped.
"Looks a little. ." Beau shook his head. "When I
first saw her, I thought it was you."
"Me? How could you think that. . that," she
said, gesturing at me, "this . . . this person was me?
Look at how she's dressed. Look at her shoes!" "I thought it was your costume," he explained. I
wasn't happy hearing my clothes described as
someone's costume. "Beau, do you think I'd ever put
on something as plain as that, even as a costume?" "What's wrong with what I'm wearing?" I
asked, assuming an indignant tone myself.
"It looks homemade," Gisselle said after she
condescended to gaze at my skirt and blouse once
more.
"It is homemade. Grandmere Catherine made
both the skirt and blouse."
"See," she said, turning back to Beau. He
nodded and saw how I was fuming.
"I'd better go fetch your parents."
"Beau Andreas, if you leave this house without
taking me to the Mardi Gras Ball . . ."
"I promise we'll go after this is straightened
out," he said.
"It will never be straightened out. It's a horrible,
horrible joke. Why don't you get out of here!" she
screamed at me. "How can you send her away?" Beau
demanded.
"Oh, you're a monster, Beau Andreas. A
monster to do this to me," she cried, and ran back to
the stairway.
"Gisselle!"
"I'm sorry," I said. "I told you I shouldn't have
come in. I didn't mean to ruin your evening." He looked at me a moment and then shook his
head.
"How can she blame me? Look," he said, "just
go into the living room and make yourself
comfortable. I know where Pierre and Daphne are. It
won't take but a few minutes and they'll come here to
see you. Don't worry about Gisselle," he said, backing
up. "Just wait in the living room." He turned and
hurried out, leaving me alone, never feeling more like
a stranger. Could I ever call this house my home? I
wondered as I started toward the living room. I was afraid to touch anything, afraid even to
walk on the expensive looking big Persian oval rug
that extended from the living room doorway, under
the two large sofas and beyond. The high windows
were draped in scarlet velvet with gold ties and the
walls were papered in a delicate floral design, the
hues matching the colors in the soft cushion high back br />
chairs and the sofas. On the thick mahogany center
table were two thick crystal vases. The lamps on the
side tables looked very old and valuable. There were
paintings on all the walls, some landscapes of
plantations and some street scenes from the French
Quarter. Above the marble fireplace was the portrait
of a distinguished looking old gentleman, his hair and
full beard a soft gray. His dark eyes seemed to swing
my way and hold.
I lowered myself gently in the corner of the
sofa on my right and sat rigidly, clinging to my little
bag and gaping about the room, looking at the statues,
the figurines in the curio case, and the other pictures
on the walls. I was afraid to look at the portrait of the
man above the fireplace again. He seemed so
accusatory.
A hickory wood grandfather's clock that looked as old as time itself ticked in the corner, its numbers all Roman. Otherwise, the great house was silent. Occasionally, I thought I heard a thumping above me and wondered if that was Gisselle storming back and
forth in her room.
My heart, which had been racing and drumming
ever since I let Beau Andreas lead me into the house,
calmed. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. Had
I done a dreadful thing coming here? Was I about to
destroy some-one else's life? Why was Grandmere
Catherine so sure this was the right thing for me to
do? My twin sister obviously resented my very
existence? What was to keep my father from doing the
same? My heart teetered on the edge of a precipice,
ready to plunge and die if he came into this house and
rejected me.
Shortly after, I heard the sound of Edgar
Farrar's footsteps as he raced down the corridor to
open the front door. I heard other voices and people
hurrying in.
"In the living room, monsieur," Beau Andreas
called, and a moment later my eyes took in my real
father's face. How many times had I sat before my
mirror and imagined him by transposing my own
facial features onto the blank visage I conjured before me? Yes, he had the same soft green eyes and we had the same shaped nose and chin. His face was leaner, firmer, his forehead rolled back gently under the shock of thick chestnut hair brushed back at the sides
with just a small pompadour at the front.
He was tall, at least six feet two, and had a slim
but firm looking torso with shoulders that sloped
gracefully into his arms, the physique of a tennis
player, easily discernable in his Mardi Gras costume: